


Words

by justlikesomuch



Category: Crooked Media RPF
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, First Time, Hand Jobs, M/M, Oral Sex, POV Second Person, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-11
Updated: 2017-09-11
Packaged: 2018-12-26 14:47:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12061167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justlikesomuch/pseuds/justlikesomuch
Summary: It doesn't count if you're really tired, or a little bit drunk.





	Words

It doesn't count if it only happens when you're tired. The first time it happens, you're so tired that when the campaign bus finally gets to the hotel, it takes you a minute to even remember what state you're in.

And that's ridiculous, because all you're living and breathing is draft after draft of a speech about this state. But here you are, randomly choosing one of the hotel beds to fall on, feeling him flop down next to you, flattened by the same exhaustion.

It doesn't count if your eyes are squeezed shut as you reach for him and pull him on top of you. If you don't kiss him, if your mouth never even brushes his, only settles in the hollow of his neck that somehow tastes exactly as you knew it would when you weren't staring at him on the bus.

You never sit behind him, highways rushing by out the bus window, watch the way his hair’s getting shaggy at his collar. Never think about that neck later when you're all alone and chasing release, so tired no other image will get you off. 

Here in the hotel room, you will reach into the back pockets of his khakis and pull, pull him into you, rolling and pushing against him like a desperate teenager. As though your hips had their own will. As though your hips and his were making secret plans, grinding him down onto you (the salt of that neck, his teeth scraping your jaw), building and building until he gasps and moans and says, “Jon, Jon,” and that's all it takes to push you over the edge. 

You need this. It feel amazing to finally come, murmuring words you've only thought about him, already sinking into sleep as you feel him come, too, his fingertips gripping your arms at the cathartic edge of painful. 

It doesn't count if you don't discuss it afterwards. Words give shape to things. 

…

It doesn't count if you're both a little drunk. That possibility alone is a reason to go out with the other staffers, to keep track of his drinks and pace yourself, to slide your gaze over to him when you want to go, only to find he is watching you with that considered intensity, that way he studies everything. 

Now he studies you. You nod at him and say your goodbyes to the others. You leave together, as friends do. 

Then you are outside, and the walk to the hotel can't go quickly enough, his pinky brushing yours as you stride, arms swinging. The night air will do nothing to sober you up. 

You cannot control how fast your heart is going, have no way to moderate how much you want this, how exceptional and dreamlike it seems. You can only break out into a jog when the hotel comes into view, grin when you hear him making chase, race him to the elevator. 

Your pinkies intertwine in the elevator. It doesn't count if you hardly touch each other in public. Another floor, and another, never yours. His nail scrapes your palm. This is the slowest elevator in the Midwest. 

The door to your room safely shut, he is on you all at once, holding your face and kissing you so deep, biting your lips, pressing your foreheads together. 

Clothes are your enemy. They come off in an awkward flurry. You never make it past the entryway, pushing him up against the mirrored door of the closet, laughing when he shivers at the cold on his back. You lick your palm and take hold of both your cocks, slick and perfect. You never want to forget the noises he makes. You want to record them and listen on an endless loop while you write. 

You're both getting close, dripping sweat on each other, kisses losing their form. He bites his lip and digs his nails into your ass as you come, pulling you gently apart. His mouth rests on yours, barely kissing, sharing breath, his eyelashes flutter against your face as he comes on your belly. 

You clap him on the back, rub a friendly little circle on the warm surface of his skin. You clean up with your t-shirts and retreat to separate beds. 

You will agree in the morning that you were very drunk, can hardly remember anything. 

…

It doesn't count when you're sharing a hotel bathroom. You maneuver around the tight space, freshly showered, too-small hotel towels wrapped around your hips. 

You shave side-by-side, watching each other in the mirror. It’s too early in the morning, and the room is silent aside from the scrape of the razors and the rush of the faucet. 

You take in, for the first time, how beautiful his face is. It's not a welcome thought, but there it sits. 

Mercifully, he interrupts this meditation, presses up behind you, fond and aroused, rocking his hips against you, pushing you against the hotel sink. 

He yelps as you whip off his towel and drop to your knees, looking up at him for a go-ahead. 

It's easy to take his perfect cock into your mouth, harder to know what to do next with your teeth, your tongue, your lips. You can't get the rhythm right, but he doesn't seem to mind. 

He looks down at you with something like wonder. You think immediately of the only only other person he looks at that way, and almost lose your focus. So you just concentrate on his nails running over your newly-buzzed scalp. 

You fumble your way through your first foray into giving head, until he squeezes your shoulder. “I'm close,” he says, and you freeze, and then it's suddenly more than you expected, and very strange. You spit onto yourself, and he laughs. Drops to his knees and kisses you, kisses you, still laughing. 

After all that, it's simply practical to head back in the shower together, to let him soap you as you brace yourself against the wall. To stroke yourself as he buries his tongue in your ass. That's just good sense. 

…

It doesn't count if there's a girl there, too. She's new on staff, a hard worker with an edge that beckons you both. Always gently teasing the two of you, watching you with a knowing look. 

Touching him feels different with her there, approving. Safer somehow. 

She knows about stuff you've never even heard about. She shows you how to prepare him slowly and gently with your fingers, how to hold back as you press inside with your cock. She helps him breathe through it. He blushes everywhere. 

She brushes his hair from his sweaty forehead as he gazes up at you, kisses his perfect open face, his pale eyelashes. 

Ever the gentleman, he will go down on her for an hour and send her thank-you flowers the next day. 

…

Election night definitely doesn't count. 

…

It doesn't count when it's just to relieve the stress of actually doing these jobs you dreamed of. To restore some joy and vitality to his face. You move together with such ease, it hardly feels like a choice anymore. 

You can tell him something this way, gripping his cock while you rub off against his hip in a bathroom stall. Kissing him into pliant calm on his couch, jumping apart when his roommates arrive unexpected. 

You can tell him something about his deep, enduring goodness, something you have always seen and known in him. You can't write it, but you can tell him with your hands, your mouth, your body curled around his sleeping form. 

You can touch his cheek as he sucks your cock, make him look up at you, hope he can somehow see his beauty projected back at him. 

It's the easiest thing, an extension of your close friendship. Never discussed, the possibility always thrumming under the surface. 

Until you leave for California, and maybe that’s all there will ever be to it. 

...

It doesn't count if years go by without it sparking up again. And then, when it does, it's just kissing, and only because your other best friend is so relentless in his teasing one night, won't stop joking and daring you both to do it. 

So you cup his cheek and you look in his eyes and you kiss him, hands skimming his shoulders, stroking his back. You breathe him in and feel that old clench in your chest. 

The room goes quieter than anyone expected. It's been so long, and he tastes even better than you remember.

You're just so glad he's on the west coast now. You're heading back to L.A. tomorrow, so you can spend the night at his place without having to say what it means. 

And whatever it means, it can't stop at kissing. It never could. 

You won't feel your heart unclench until you are rolling around in his sheets, using up the last of his lube, shouting when you come because there's no one to overhear, no secret to keep anymore. Until you are falling asleep with his arms tight around you. 

…

It doesn't count if you've fallen in love with a woman, and you're afraid to tell her how it is between you and him. 

But you do tell her, and she surprises you. 

She loves this part of you, too, loves this jagged streak of wildness running through your conventional life. She wants to know all about it, but you don't know what else to say. You have words for everything, for everyone, but not for this

She loves to talk about it with you, loves to get you both all worked up thinking about him. She likes the license to pursue her own quiet adventures. She likes the space. 

When he comes to visit the first time, she prepares the guest room and goes to stay with her sister. “Tell me EVERYTHING,” she messages you, followed by a string of emojis. And you try, for her. 

So he moves to town, and this thing between you becomes a part of your life, a part you still keep cordoned off in your mind. 

You complete each other’s sentences and fuck at the office when everyone else leaves. You leave clothes and a toothbrush at his house. You are happy just to watch him while he's working and send him texts that he blushes at and immediately deletes. 

It doesn't count when you're engaged to someone else. It doesn't count when you're going to be somebody's husband. 

…

It doesn't count if it's the end. 

He invites you to meet him in D.C after your honeymoon. You'll have your own political mini-vacation, the two of you. 

What's the opposite of a honeymoon?

There's no big speech. He lets it trickle out as you travel from meeting to rally to photo op. 

You're a married man now. He's getting ready to propose himself. He wants a fresh start with her. Only her. This is a new chapter, or some bullshit like that. 

Back at the hotel, he keeps trying to talk about it as he undresses you, so you tell him to shut up and you shove him down onto the bed, kissing him until you have to stop and breathe. You suck his stupid eyebrows and bite his neck. 

You pin his arms; when did he get this strong? Something twists inside you, remembering his young, sweet face and his body of years ago. His shape has changed so much in the time that you've known him. You won't see any more changes, not the way you do now. 

He gazes up at you, catches you out of your thoughts, surprises you by flipping you on your back. You don't want him to look at you like that. You reach for the lube and a condom on the side table, toss them to him as you pull off the rest of your clothes. Efficient. Businesslike. 

He strips down as well, sits on edge of the bed and watches you. You turn away from his gaze and arrange yourself on all fours, tailbone tipped up, treacherous face resting on your arms. He loves to see you like this.

But he rests his warm palm on your back, turns you over to face him, works you open for ages until you beg and twist on his fingers. 

He pushes in too slow, as though your body didn't know his intrusion so well, didn't welcome it like a gift, wasn't made for this moment. He kisses you as he fucks you, kisses words into your mouth, strokes you until you shudder and mumble his name like a curse. 

He comes inside you for the last time ever, pulls out and tosses the condom, and that's that. 

Afterwards, you will sit up in bed, looking out at nothing, hand on your mouth, trying to give it words. 

“I just never thought it actually counted,” you say. 

He screws up his sleepy face. “Counted as what, Jon? Counted as what?”

By the time the answer comes to you, he will be asleep. And when he wakes up, you will be gone.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm getting punched by Buzz Aldrin on Tumblr, same name.


End file.
